


The Best Woman

by everybodylies



Category: Elementary (TV)
Genre: AU, F/M, Fake Marriage
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-28
Updated: 2015-06-28
Packaged: 2018-04-06 13:37:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,299
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4223709
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/everybodylies/pseuds/everybodylies
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Season 3 AU. After her partner leaves New York for MI6, Joan starts up her own detective business and moves on. It's a busy year, and a lot happens. Her boyfriend dies, Hannah Gregson screws her over a bunch of times, and Moriarty escapes. Then she gets an invitation to Sherlock Holmes’s wedding.</p><p>  <em> “This is the most ridiculous thing you’ve done since that time you drove my car into that murderous therapist’s car.” </em></p><p>  <em>	“Mm, still holding a grudge over that, I see.”</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

_My dearest Watson,_

The silence of the brownstone is grating. Joan shoves her belongings into the cardboard boxes, lips pursed and fingers tensed.

_During our last case, I was offered employment by MI6._

It takes a surprisingly small number of boxes to contain all of her things at the brownstone, almost as if she had already known not to invest too much in her life here. She can’t decide if that makes it better or worse.

_I have accepted the offer._

As she carries all of her boxes downstairs, she keeps glancing at the front door, half expecting Sherlock to waltz back in, spouting his usual eloquent and heartfelt apologies. It’s surreal, thinking that Sherlock just… left. Left her. Without so much as a goodbye. Just a bullshit letter.

_I regret not giving you advance warning of our partnership’s termination,_

Sherlock’s letter sits on the dining room table. Eventually Joan will throw it away, maybe even tear it up a little, but for now, it’s still right where she found it. She wonders how long it had taken him to write. Had he agonized over every word, every letter? Or had he simply scrawled it on his way out, tossing it over his shoulder like an afterthought?

_but I do not leave New York with a guilty conscience._

The brownstone phone rings, and she picks it up. “This is Joan Watson.”

“Hi,” replies a voice, breathy with panic. “I really need help. Is Sherlock Holmes there?”

“He’s… no longer working in New York.”

“Oh,” says the voice. “Well, are you a detective? Can you help me?”

Well, obviously she’d been planning to take cases by herself, but right now? She’s halfway through moving, and she still has all this stuff to figure out about her lease.

And, fuck, she’s on her own now. Well and truly on her own for the first time since she’d started this whole thing. No second pair of eyes to look over all the evidence. No sounding board for all her theories.

_You don’t need me anymore._

“Damn right,” she mutters.

“Sorry, what was that?”

“Nothing,” she says quickly. “Yes, I am. I’ll take the case.”

_Yours,_

_Holmes_

* * *

As usual, Sherlock was right. She doesn’t need him anymore. She solves case after case after case, and if she misses something that she thinks Sherlock would have caught, she grits her teeth and tells herself that’s on him, not her. After all, she’s doing her best. And he’s the one who left, who abandoned all his obligations and responsibilities. (That’s what she tries to tell herself, anyway.)

* * *

Moriarty’s postcard sits on her kitchen counter, and she stares at the drawing of the coffee cup as she eats her dinner.

Marcus calls. “Joan, me and a couple of officers at the precinct are going out for drinks after shift tonight. Wanna join?”

Joan’s mouth twists. “Oh, that sounds like an NYPD thing. I wouldn’t want to intrude—”

“No, no, no, see, they asked me to invite you.”

Andrew has been dead for over a month. So has Elana March. And yet, she still has no idea where to go from here. She fingers the postcard, taps it against the counter absentmindedly. Tap, tap, tap.

“And I just thought it would be good for you to, you know,” Marcus continues, “get out a little.”

Joan bites back the defensive reply that’s on the tip of her tongue. _I don’t need your help_ , she doesn’t say. Marcus is a good friend. A bit lacking in subtlety, but a good friend.

“Thanks, Marcus, but I’m just not in the mood. Maybe next week.”

* * *

This is the third time Hannah Gregson has stared at her with her puppy dog eyes and handed her a case file.

“Please, Joan, the people are scared,” she says.

Joan always tries to see the best in people.

* * *

She’s awoken in the middle of the night by someone pounding on her door. She opens the door in her pajamas to find a man wearing over-the-top sunglasses and a cleanly pressed suit.

“Joan Watson?” the man says in an accent she just can’t place.

Joan rubs her eyes. “Yes, that’s me.”

The man pulls out a badge. “Agent Markey of Interpol. Any and all information relayed in this meeting is to remain classified and is not to be disclosed to anyone else under risk of prosecution. Do you understand?”

“Er, yes?”

The man steps closer, lowers his voice, and says, “Jamie Moriarty has escaped custody.”

Joan’s veins turn to ice. “When?” she demands, now painfully awake. She peers past the man to look at the hallway, on high alert. Every shadow, every corner offers a new and menacing threat.

“Yesterday, April 2nd, at 0400.”

Joan gives the man her harshest glare. “She’s one of the most dangerous people in the world. How could you let this happen? _Again?_ How many times do I have to catch her for you?”

The man’s expression moves not one inch. “Will you be needing protective custody?”

Joan shakes her head. “I can take care of myself.”

* * *

“Come oooooon, Joan,” Emily whines over the phone. “I haven’t seen you for weeks.”

“I’m really busy, Em,” Joan lies. The truth is, hanging out with her friends no longer holds her interest like it used to. The last time they’d gone to dinner, Joan had found herself struggling to stay awake through the appetizers. Seeing her friends just doesn’t seem important anymore. They’re just distractions, interruptions from her work—

Shit. She sounds like Sherlock. Shit.

“I know you’re busy, but would it kill you to take a night off?”

“You know what, it wouldn’t. Let’s go to Jimmy’s. I haven’t been there in forever.”

* * *

It doesn’t take long for Moriarty to get to work. She leaves a trail of murders across Asia, Africa, Europe.

Marcus reads through the pile of folders she’d collected with skepticism in his expression. “You sure these are all her?” he asks.

“Yes,” she says. To the untrained eye, the crimes are unconnected, random. But all of the victims are people with long criminal records, and they were killed by a clean shot to the head. Execution style. Moriarty’s probably cleaning house, getting rid of all her former employees who betrayed her after she was imprisoned. There’s never any evidence at the scene.

“Are you going to do anything?” Marcus asks.

Well, what is there to do? There’s no evidence. And Joan can’t just leave her home to chase a murderer across the globe, can she? And besides, what can she do that Interpol can’t?

She forwards the files to Interpol and waits.

At the next crime scene, they find a single golden hair. The DNA matches, of course. That night, Moriarty calls.

“You like my work?” she asks.

“You’re getting sloppy,” Joan replies dryly.

“Honestly, Joan,” Moriarty laughs, “do you really think I would be leaving evidence behind if I didn’t want to be?”

Joan grips the phone tighter. “No,” she says, voice hard.

She can hear the grin in Moriarty’s voice. “Don’t underestimate me, Joan,” she says, then hangs up.

* * *

She’s at Marcus’s desk, searching through the police database, when Marcus walks up to her, eyebrows furrowed. “Hey, Joan, you read your mail this morning?”

“No, not yet.” Joan looks up at Marcus’s troubled expression. “Is there something wrong?”

Marcus shakes his head quickly. “No. Well, yes. Well, I’m really not sure how I would describe it.” He tosses Joan an opened envelope. It’s been addressed to Detective Bell, curly gold print embossing an expensive card stock. The return address is somewhere in London. She tries to remember if she recognizes the address—

“Joan, stop being a detective for a second and just take a look at what’s inside, wouldya,” Marcus says, sighing fondly.

The paper on the inside reads:

 **_Kitty Winter_ **  
**_ &_**  
**_Sherlock Holmes_**

_request the pleasure of your company at their marriage on Saturday, the 23rd of May, 2015._

_A wedding ceremony will take place at_  
_The Holmes Estate_  
_27 Hook Street, Brighton_  
_followed by fine food and dancing._

_All travel costs will be reimbursed by the Holmes family. We look forward to sharing this special day with you. Please RSVP by May 1st with the enclosed card._

Joan looks up at Marcus with her eyes wide.

“Yeah, I was pretty surprised, too,” Marcus says.


	2. Chapter 1

Through the window, Joan watches the planes taxiing and taking off, disappearing behind clouds. This is the rashest decision she’s made in a while.

There’s still time to turn back. Plenty of standbys would be happy to take her ticket. She should just go home, take some more cases. Some lady with a missing dog keeps calling and could have an interesting mystery. Ok, probably not.

Well, she doesn’t even have to go home. She could fly to Boston, visit Oren for a weekend. She could hop on a plane to Aruba and have some fun in the sun. She could go to the Alps and ski away her troubles.

But her troubles would probably find her there anyway. And she’s got a bad feeling about all of this.

Her phone rings. Marcus. “Hey Joan, can you come down to the station? I got a new murder I thought you could look at.”

“Sorry, Marcus, I’m going to be out of town for the next few days.”

“Oh, where ya headed?”

She pauses. “London.”

“The wedding’s in two weeks, Joan.”

“I know.”

“You’re going over there to see what the hell is up with this whole thing?”

“Yeah, it’s just… something doesn’t seem right.”

“Well, be careful. Moriarty was recently sighted in France, you know. Let me know if you need any backup. Any kind of backup. If you want me to go over there and punch Holmes for you, I can do that, too.”

Joan stifles a laugh. “Will do, Marcus.”

* * *

On the plane, she tries to sleep, and fails.

What she didn’t tell Marcus is that she’d done some research on Sherlock’s new bride, and she hadn’t liked what she found. What she didn’t tell Marcus is that, after he’d shown her the wedding invitation at the precinct, she’d gone home to wait for her own in the mail and nothing had ever come. (And in the back of her mind, she thinks, _maybe he doesn’t care about you anymore_ , but she knows that’s not true, at least she thinks she knows.)

Something’s up. Something’s fishy. Joan’s a seasoned detective now, and she trusts her gut.

* * *

Joan follows the return address from Marcus’s wedding invitation to a small, slightly disheveled cottage on the outskirts of London. The brick walls are covered in ivy, and the red wooden door has paint flecks chipping off in multiple places, though there is a brand new lock securing the knob. It seems like the kind of place Sherlock would live, and she really hopes that the woman he’s marrying has not been forced to live here with him.

She goes to knock, when the sound of raucous laughter comes from the backyard. And is that… the sound of Sherlock laughing? It had been such a rarely heard sound around the brownstone that she has trouble recognizing it. Her interest has been piqued, and she approaches the gate to the back, unlatching it and stepping through.

Peering around the corner, she sees a small group of people seated around a garden table covered with tea and pastries. The group is composed of one younger women with bangs and dark eyes, one older woman, two older men, and lastly, a younger man facing away from her.

Joan slowly walks forward. “Sherlock?” she says.

All members of the group turn to look at her, and yes, it is Sherlock. He looks mostly the same as when she’d last saw him, only now he’s clean shaven and wearing a tie. Bizarre.

Sherlock’s mouth widens into a grin, which, as far as Joan can tell, seems genuine. “Joan!” he exclaims, and she winces at the unnatural sound of her first name in his voice. “Fantastic! You’re here,” he says, as if he’d fully expected his former detective partner to come uninvited and two weeks early to his wedding. And knowing him, it’s likely he had.

“Uh, yes,” Joan says, momentarily lost for words.

“Come, allow me to introduce you to everyone.” Sherlock beckons for her to walk closer. “This is Kitty, my fiancee.” The young woman stands up. She’s wearing heavy eyeliner and mascara and a bright yellow sundress that don’t seem to fit together. Joan feels a pit in her stomach. She’s so young, too young to be mixed up in whatever bullshit Sherlock’s planning.

Joan shakes her hand. “Pleasure.”

“This is Kitty’s mother and father, Genevieve and Carlton Winter.” Joan nods politely. “And this is my father, Sherrinford Holmes. You two already know each other, though I do not believe you have ever met in person.”

Sherrinford gives her a harsh and pointed look, which she instantly recognizes. It’s the look that her clients from her sober companion days used to give her that said that no words regarding addiction issues were to be uttered.

“Pleasure to meet you all. Sherlock, can we—”

“Joan and I worked together as consulting detectives for the NYPD for two years,” Sherlock continues, addressing the group. “During that time, we put away eighty murderers—”

“Sherlock.”

“—twenty-two thieves, fifteen kidnappers, and numerous other criminals.”

_“Sherlock.”_

“Approximately nine months ago, I returned to England to pursue other work—” Joan snorts discretely, and gives up. She crosses her arms and waits for Sherlock to finish on his own. “—and Joan has been doing an excellent job policing New York on her own ever since.” He turns to her. “Joan, I assume you have some bags.”

“Yeah, I left them out front.”

“Excellent. I will assist you in putting them away.” Now addressing the group, “We will just be five minutes.”

Joan follows Sherlock out front, where he unlocks the shiny new lock on the door and carries her things inside. Once the door closes, Joan closes her fist, winds up, and delivers a nice, solid hit to his left arm.

Wincing, Sherlock recoils and rubs the injured spot with his hand. “I... deserved that.”

“Sherlock!” Joan says, fighting to keep her voice at a whisper. “What the hell is going on?”

Sherlock puts a finger to his lips and walks over to a staircase leading down. He flicks the light switch on with the hint of a smile on his face. “All in due time, Watson.”

Joan exhales deeply. Finally, he sounds familiar, like the Sherlock Holmes she knows. She follows him down the stairs to a moldy basement.

“Okay, explain yourself. And you should know that I just had to sit next to a crying baby for eight hours on my flight here, so cut the crap.”

“Tsk, you should have flown first class, Watson. The Holmes Estate is covering all travel expenses—”

“Sherlock, please!” Joan shakes her head. “On the flight, I racked my brain, and I couldn’t think of any kind of case that could possibly justify faking an entire wedding and lying to all of your friends and family.”

“There is one case large enough, critical enough.” He gives her a look. “And you already know which.”

The answer comes to her easily. “You’re doing this to… catch Moriarty?” Joan throws her hands up into the air. “In what universe does that make sense?”

“This one!” Sherlock insists, eyes alight. “Listen to me, I was on Moriarty’s trail for over a month, and each time I came close, she slipped out of my hands. I chased her across half of Europe and accomplished nothing. She cannot be caught.” Sherlock raises his eyebrows at her. “But perhaps, she can be _lured_.”

“… by your _wedding_.” Joan’s tone remains unamused.

“Think about it, Watson. You know me, better than most. Would I ever, under any circumstances, consent to being married?”

“No, but—”

“Moriarty has long been fascinated with me. Imagine the thoughts that will run through her mind when she hears of my engagement. She will be baffled. She will have to come see the spectacle for herself.”

Joan opens her mouth to object, but Sherlock’s logic sounds… slightly reasonable. It… could… work.

“I don’t know,” she says, after a moment. “Doesn’t this seem kind of like an obvious trap? You chase Moriarty for a couple weeks and then immediately return home to get engaged?”

“Naturally, Moriarty will consider the idea that this is a trap. Even so, she will be curious. She will need to return to London to determine the legitimacy of this wedding.” Sherlock puts his hands together. “Have I persuaded you yet?”

“Not even close.” Joan starts pacing around in the small space, thinking. “Your bride,” she says, changing tracks, “I’m concerned.”

“There is nothing to be concerned about. Kitty became my apprentice shortly after I returned to London and has been working with me for several months. She is completely trustworthy and capable.”

“No, I’m not concerned about her, I’m concerned for her. I did my research, Sherlock. I know her history as well as you do. And I don’t know if it’s a good idea for her to have to do all this marriage stuff with you. I can’t imagine she’ll enjoy it.”

“Firstly, Watson, you know I am nothing if not an honorable man. I would never force Kitty to do anything she did not want to do. And secondly, this was her idea. I had originally wanted to contact the Marchioness and ask her to take part in my charade, but Kitty was confident that she could do it. She is always very determined to prove herself.”

“Still. I’m going to want to talk to her. Alone.”

“Of course.”

Joan crosses her arms, stops pacing and walks up to Sherlock. She pokes a finger at his chest. “This is the most ridiculous thing you’ve done since that time you drove my car into that murderous therapist’s car.”

“Mm, still holding a grudge over that, I see.” Sherlock glances down at his watch. “Unfortunately, we really should get going,” Sherlock says, ushering her back up the stairs. “Can’t have anyone accusing me of adultery before my sham wedding, can we?”

Joan relents and follows him. “We still have a lot to discuss, Sherlock,” she grumbles.

Back on the first floor, Sherlock blocks her progress with one arm. “Oh, one more thing.” He turns to her. “Would you do me the honor of being my best man?”

Joan stops short. _“What?”_

“Sorry, er, best woman, I suppose. I didn’t think you would get hung up on the gender of the position, but—”

“That’s not what I was surprised at, Sherlock. We…” she finds herself lowering her voice, tinged with shame and hurt, “we haven’t been on the best of terms lately.”

Sherlock clasps and unclasps his hands. “I know. And I have not seen you for almost a year. And yet,” he looks at her with such fondness in his eyes, and Joan is taken aback, “you are still the most important person in my life.” He quickly glances around, though it is clear that no one else is around. “Other than my future wife, Kitty, of course,” he says loudly.

“Sherlock…”

“Please, Watson.” He grasps her wrist. “Please,” he says, coming awfully close to a whine.

She really hadn’t wanted to get that involved with the fake wedding and have to lie to everybody and remember cover stories and all that not fun stuff, but—

“Fine,” she sighs. “Fine.”

Sherlock grins and pulls her outside by her hand. “Announcement: Joan has just agreed to be my best man!” There’s a faint smattering of applause in response, and Joan smiles awkwardly.

“Oh, fantastic!” Genevieve Winter exclaims.


End file.
